The Mayfair Mystery

by Frank Richardson

  There was a catch in his throat, as he began what he intended to be a hostile and aggressive cross-examination as to her absence from town. But the words he chose were: ‘My dearest girl, where have you been? Why did you go away and leave me?’

  Her lips tightened and her eyes looked almost coldly upon him.

  ‘My dear George, that’s nothing whatever to do with you.’

  ‘It has everything to do with me,’ he replied hotly. ‘I’m in love with you.’

  ‘Therefore you should trust me.… Don’t you trust me?’

  She spoke with a metallic note in her voice.

  ‘Oh, of course I trust you, but I want…to know.’

  ‘I have been away.’

  ‘That is no answer.’

  ‘George, understand once and for all, that is the only answer I can give you.’

  ‘But my position is intolerable. No man would stand it.’

  She smiled. ‘You must take the bad with the good. We are none of us perfect. I have a curious habit of absenting myself from town. If you can’t stand a woman who has that curious habit, you must break it off with her. This is a matter for you to decide for yourself.’

  Bitterly he answered: ‘But there’s nothing to break off. Apparently, you are never going to marry me. We are not really engaged at all.’

  ‘Oh, yes, we are,’ she laughed. ‘We’re engaged to be engaged. We’re not engaged to be married, I admit, but our engagement should be, at any rate from the man’s point of view, the best possible sort of engagement.’

  ‘It’s unheard of,’ he replied.

  ‘Are we so conservative,’ she asked, ‘that there are to be no innovations in the world? I have given you everything, as the saying is. When you are tired of me, you can cast me aside like a soiled glove or dove—whichever it is.’

  He reproached her.

  ‘You talk in a most extraordinary way.’

  ‘I am an extraordinary woman. I say it without egotism, I am extraordinary.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I admit that you’re deuced extraordinary.’

  She bridled: ‘The fact that I’m in love with you doesn’t entitle you to be rude to me.’

  ‘I beg your pardon. My dear Miriam, I want to understand…if I can. Am I never to know where you go to when you disappear?’

  ‘You are not,’ she answered firmly. ‘Those are my terms. Unless, of course, you employ…’

  He supplied the word ‘detectives’. ‘Of course I shouldn’t do that.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘you’re a gentleman. If you were to have me watched—well, of course, if I found out that you were not a gentleman…well, then, I shouldn’t miss you so very much.’

  ‘Miriam!’ he cried.

  As the car arrived at Piccadilly Circus he caught sight of a contents bill:

  THE EMPEROR ARRIVES TOMORROW

  ‘By Jove,’ he exclaimed, ‘that’s a triumph for Clifford Oakleigh! A triumph for impertinence.’

  She contradicted him volubly.

  ‘My dear George, you’re talking absolute nonsense. A man who has subdued disease is a greater man than the conqueror of a country. There are two things in the world worth having—money and health. The millionaire has discovered his power: the medical man will soon assert his. He will assert it even over the millionaire. When the Emperor and the plutocrat are standing by the jaws of death, the man of science can ask his own terms.’

  ‘My darling,’ he said, fascinated by her beauty, and scarcely listening to what she said, ‘you’ll come back to South Audley Street tonight…and have some sandwiches?’

  A delighted nod was her reply as she nestled to his side.

  Gratefully he pressed her wrist.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked, as his hand touched a large gold heart-shaped locket.

  ‘Only an ordinary thing that I got at Percy Edwards’.’

  Though she tried to withdraw her arm he seized the heart.

  ‘That’s an awfully out-of-date sort of thing. These things have been out of fashion for about six years.’

  They had, indeed, been invented by an actress, and for a time were all the vogue, but he had not seen one on a well-dressed woman for years.

  ‘That heart opens,’ he continued.

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ she answered, putting her right hand on it.

  ‘Of course it does,’ he persisted. ‘I can see the hinge. What have you got inside? You must have had this for six years at least.’

  ‘My dear George, you’re becoming a nuisance. Your suggestion is that I had a love-affair when I was a flapper…Well, even if I did…You know. What does it matter?’

  Imperiously he told her to open it.

  ‘George, you’re intolerable. I’m not going to open it. It has nothing whatever to do with you.’

  Querulously he answered: ‘Nothing has anything whatever to do with me! I suppose there’s a man’s photograph in there?’

  She looked at him curiously out of the corners of her eyes.

  ‘There is.’

  ‘Ah, I knew it.’

  ‘You haven’t asked whose photograph.’

  ‘Naturally. You wouldn’t tell me.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I should.’

  ‘Well, whose is it?’

  ‘My Uncle Gussie’s.’

  ‘That brute’s?’

  ‘There you are!’ she said, laughing, laughing with laughter that overcame her pretended annoyance. ‘You abuse my relatives.’

  ‘Let me see it.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ she pouted. ‘I shouldn’t dream of it. Why should a man wish to see a picture of an avuncular brute?’

  ‘Will you swear that the photograph is Augustus Parker’s?’

  With a movement of weariness she turned her head away.

  ‘For God’s sake, George, do remember that I’m not in the witness-box.’ Then, with a flattering smile, she said: ‘I have come out to enjoy myself. I’m going to be happy all tonight. Will you swear not to worry me any more?’

  His arm slid round her waist, and of course he promised. But his self-respect was wounded to find that she was in a position to dictate her own terms. Laughingly he said:

  ‘You are as imperious as Clifford Oakleigh.’

  ‘I am,’ she admitted.

  After a delightful dinner they went on very late to the Criterion, where they found Reggie Pardell awaiting them in the box. It gratified Harding to see the impression that his fiancée made upon his friend. Altogether he enjoyed himself very much. He felt prouder of himself perhaps than he had ever felt before. Had he not secured the love of one of the most beautiful women in England? Was he not supposed to have secured her hand? He delighted in the unmistakable look of envy that Reggie deliberately threw at him.

  As they were coming out of the theatre, he walked ahead of the other two in order to catch sight of Miriam’s footman. As he stood on the pavement while the man had gone in search of the motor he was conscious of something in the nature of a disturbance taking place in the entrance. Following a natural instinct, he rushed back and saw Miriam looking in complete perplexity at…Mingey.

  Mingey’s eyes were darting from his head. He was gesticulating wildly. He had the appearance of a man bereft of his wits, and in a loud tone was addressing her as ‘Sarah’ and appealing to her to come home and to ‘leave this life of shame’.

  Instantly Harding had him by the collar.

  ‘Mingey, what the devil do you mean?’

  In complete bewilderment the frail, startled man looked into his master’s face.

  ‘Oh, Mr Harding, it’s her; it’s my Sarah. I have watched at a different theatre every night and now I’ve seen her again.’

  Miriam, with her eyes wide open, questioned Harding:

  ‘Do you know this man?’

  ‘This is my clerk,’ he said, and then added quickly to Reggie, ‘Put her into the motor. We can’t have a scene here.’

  But the people were crowding round. Eager faces were pressed towards the quivering clerk an
d the beautiful woman.

  Mingey tried to shake himself free and raised his hands heavenwards.

  ‘It’s my daughter,’ he cried, ‘it’s my daughter! Let me go, Mr Harding. I tell you, all of you, it’s my daughter—the daughter who disappeared. My name is Mingey. You have all heard of her. Now I have tracked her down.’

  ‘For Heaven’s sake keep quiet,’ said Harding, without releasing his grip. Then by way of an explanation, which was eagerly desired by the crowd, he said:

  ‘This poor fellow is my clerk. His daughter vanished—the Bayswater mystery, and the poor fellow’s mind is quite unhinged.’

  Mingey wrung his hands.

  ‘It’s not true. It’s not true. It’s my daughter. It’s my Sarah. But she doesn’t know me, sir. The poor thing doesn’t know me. And she has sunk to this. But I would take her back, even now.’

  Two red spots burned on Harding’s face.

  ‘Keep quiet,’ he said, through clenched teeth, ‘this lady is my fiancée. You’ll be in a madhouse in a week.’

  Then he left him and entered the motor.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  THE DISMISSAL OF MINGEY

  THE next morning a painful interview took place between Harding and his clerk in King’s Bench Walk. The barrister felt there was but one possible course open to him. He therefore told Mingey as kindly as might be that, after his behaviour of the night before, he would have no further use for his services.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mingey, very sorry indeed. You have been with me for many years, and you have worked admirably, but…’

  The clerk pleaded with him.

  ‘Oh, sir, I’m not a young man. I shan’t be able to get another job.’

  In all honesty he admitted that he had saved a certain amount of money. But the Temple was the Temple, and a barrister’s clerk is always influenced by the romance of his surroundings. It may be that he himself is unaware of the fascination the old buildings exercise. Be that as it may, it is almost always his ambition to die in harness. He finds it almost impossible to retire.

  ‘Besides, sir,’ he continued, ‘it was my daughter: it was my Sarah. I ask you, sir, could a man make a mistake over anything of that sort?’

  ‘No man,’ replied Harding sternly, ‘who possesses all his faculties, to such an extent as a barrister’s clerk should possess all his faculties, could make such a mistake. Still, that’s the mistake you have made. The lady you believe to be your daughter is, as a matter of fact, Miss Clive of 69 Pembroke Street, Mayfair, and she is also engaged to be my wife.’

  That should be sufficient for the clerk.

  Mingey was unshaken.

  ‘She’s my daughter, sir. As sure as there’s a God above, she’s my daughter.’

  Harding became impatient. ‘Don’t talk nonsense. You showed me a photograph of your daughter. She was a plain girl in spectacles. Miss Clive is a beautiful woman, and she doesn’t wear spectacles. Indeed, no beautiful woman wears spectacles,’ he continued, struck with an idea.

  ‘It’s an extraordinary thing that only plain people suffer from defective eyesight.’

  The clerk persisted. ‘But her eyesight was not very bad, sir.’

  Harding struck in. ‘Then she must have been very ugly. No girl, unless she had given up all hope of presenting a pleasing appearance to the world, would wear spectacles.’

  ‘Any girl, sir, would look pretty dressed up as she was.’

  Sternly Harding answered:

  ‘No girl could ever be as pretty as Miss Clive…except Miss Clive. I have every sympathy with you, Mingey. You have been through a great deal, and I am afraid you haven’t come out of it. Of course, I will give you a good character. But I should advise you to go to the seaside for a bit. Here is a cheque for £50 to pay your expenses.’ Mingey took it between trembling fingers and toyed with it for a minute. ‘You’ll promise me, sir…’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘You’ll excuse my saying, sir, what I’m going to say.’

  ‘For Heaven’s sake, say it.’

  ‘You will really marry her, won’t you, sir?’

  At the end of his patience, he exclaimed:

  ‘Whom? Marry whom?’

  ‘My daughter, sir.’

  ‘No, damn it, I won’t.’

  ‘Then I can’t take your cheque, sir.’

  Mingey replaced it on the table.

  ‘Oh! you ass! You complete ass! Take the cheque. Don’t be a fool.’

  ‘No, sir, I can’t take it! It seems to me…like the price of shame.’

  With an imperious gesture, Harding motioned him towards the door.

  That terminated the interview.

  Harding sat down at his table and began reading a brief.

  In a few minutes, the door opened and Mingey glided in.

  ‘Please, sir, how long have you known this Miss Clive?’

  Harding sprang to his feet, pallid with indignation.

  ‘What the devil do you want to know for?’

  ‘I thought, sir, that if you only got to know her after my Sarah’s disappearance, well, it might help to clear matters up, to make you understand.’

  This was the last straw.

  The barrister stood towering over the frightened clerk.

  ‘Get out of my chambers, here and now. Take your hat, take anything that belongs to you, and go.’

  ‘You will marry her, won’t you, sir?’

  Harding banged the door, strode to the fireplace and rang the bell.

  His junior clerk entered.

  ‘Thomas, I have been obliged to get rid of Mingey. The sudden disappearance of his daughter has destroyed his nerve. He is to leave here at once, poor man. He’s got some strange ideas in his head. But remember this, that under no circumstances is he ever to be admitted to these chambers.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That will do.’

  It is a strange thing how out of a conversation which seemed to us at the time to be but slightly important, we often remember a phrase or a word destined to have considerable influence on our lives. On the previous night Harding had been roughly indignant at Miriam’s suggestion that he might employ detectives. At frequent intervals, the possibility of employing detectives had occurred to him, but he had thrust the idea aside as unworthy of a gentleman. And, now, Mingey had made the absurd suggestion that the disappearance of Sarah and the coming into his life of Miriam might be contemporaneous. ‘Curse detectives! Confound Mingey! Let us get to work.’

  But it was impossible to work. He couldn’t: points of law—even the simplest—became cloudy and elusive. Only two points seemed worthy of consideration. Should he employ detectives? Was it possible that the disappearance of Miss Mingey and the appearance of Miss Clive had taken place at about the same time? He reflected for a minute: and then he remembered that this was actually the case. But two events. Well, supposing the two events had happened at the same time, it did not follow that one had anything to do with the other. A man commits a burglary on Tuesday the 18th March: at precisely the same moment on the same day a torpedo destroyer is lost in the North Sea. These two incidents have no bearing upon one another. And yet that imbecile Mingey suggested that his dull, drab daughter was Miss Clive. Harding roared aloud. ‘Mingey thinks that I’m in love with his daughter. Good God!’

  Still, he couldn’t work. He would have a few words with Miriam.

  He rang her up on the telephone.

  The usual answer was given him.

  ‘Miss Clive is out of town, and I don’t know when she will be back, sir.’

  Impatiently he put the receiver back on the machine.

  Then he took a sudden decision. He looked up Smallwood in the book.

  Of all the detectives who, having earned their pensions at Scotland Yard, had gone in for private business, Smallwood was the best. He was absolutely reliable, and against his reputation no word had ever been breathed. Smallwood promised instant attendance.

  He came, a keen-faced, middle-aged man, w
ith somewhat indefinite features and a porterhouse moustache.

  Harding glanced at his boots. They were not of the square cut used habitually in the Force.

  Briefly he gave his instructions.

  ‘Now, look here,’ he said, ‘I know perfectly well that all you fellows in the D division when you are once in a house make a point of finding out everything that goes on in that house. You know who loves who, which is each inhabitant’s favourite vice, and so forth and so on. All these facts you tabulate. I know that Mayfair has no secrets from the D division. I understand that you are in touch with Inspector Clegg, about the smartest man in the Force now. Anything he knows he will let you know. I want you to find out all you can about Miss Clive. She lives at 69 Pembroke Street. She is at present out of town. I want her house watched night and day. I want to know the moment she arrives. I need not talk to you, Smallwood, about expense. I’m not anxious to be ruined…but anything in reason. Let me know the moment she returns. Mind you, you must look after this job personally.’

  Smallwood expressed his gratitude at being entrusted with the matter, and left.

  Within two hours, Harding was rung up on the telephone. Smallwood informed him that Miss Clive had not left the house, and was, as a matter of fact, at 69 Pembroke Street. That she had come in at three o’clock in the morning and had not been out since.

  CHAPTER XXXII

  THE ASSISTANCE OF SMALLWOOD

  EVERY day, Smallwood made his report. Every day, his report was the same. Miss Clive had not left 69 Pembroke Street.

  On three occasions Harding called at the house and asked to see her. Invariably he was informed by a servant that she was out of town. After a week of terrible anxiety, he summoned the detective to King’s Bench Walk.

  On that shrewd man’s face was written bewilderment.

  ‘Frankly, sir,’ he said, ‘I can’t understand this case. The lady has not moved out of her home since you instructed me. She was there at the time, and she is there now.’

  ‘But how do you know?’

  ‘Well, sir, I have had the house watched. I have watched the house myself. I am prepared to swear that she’s never left it.’

  ‘But,’ interrupted Harding, ‘she may have left it before you began your investigation.’